


Spin Me Like Constellations, Baby (i'll shine 'til morning)

by zenelly



Category: Kingdom Hearts
Genre: Alternate Universe - Orchestra, M/M, Mutual Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-12
Updated: 2015-02-12
Packaged: 2018-03-11 23:32:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,388
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3336872
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zenelly/pseuds/zenelly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There had been a time, Zexion remembers, when he had not wanted Demyx as his conductor. Years ago, now, when Zexion had thought that a steadier hand was what he wanted as a player, not someone who conducted so organically that it never came out the same way twice.</p><p>He can’t remember what that feels like.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Spin Me Like Constellations, Baby (i'll shine 'til morning)

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to entirely gratuitous full-orchestra fanfic that I can't even pretend to be sorry about. This is 6k of ridiculously self-indulgent bullshit and I'm absolutely in love.

Stroke, stroke, hold, _vibrato_ , one-two-one-two- **three** , and the melody swells over the build-up, victorious and overwhelming, and his eyes are fixed on the guiding patterns. He hasn’t looked down at the music for the last four lines, and he won’t need to again before the symphony ends. Hands down, out, across, up, more and more, swell it up, percussion in, cue the winds, and he can’t look away, swaying to the music, to the beat called out by those hands.

The audience is in their control, their breath called out of them just like his, but he knows that their heartbeats aren’t in time like his is. They’re close, but they don’t know how it feels to have the power of an orchestra under their fingertips, and the end is so near, up and up and up and-

Slam, draw, hold, and vibrato. Draw, more vibrato.

Hands up, drawing a finishing circle. Silence. There is no air left in the room, ringing echoes travelling through the void between the orchestra and the audience for beats of bated breath, one, two, three-

The applause is thunderous.

Zexion breathes in like he has finally come up from deep water.

* * *

 

“Guys, that was _awesome!”_

A coarse laugh comes from one side of the crowded rehearsal hall. “Demyx! You say that every single time!”

Demyx laughs, shakes his head as he pulls his dark tuxedo jacket off. He juggles the coat between his hands and heaves out a huge sigh as he peels his sweat-soaked white shirt away from his skin. “Only because it’s true every time, Axel, now put your instrument up _properly_ for once! Don’t you want to join us for the dinner?”

“Are you paying?”

Shaking his head again, Demyx turns around, smile still bright in his eyes. From his corner of the rehearsal hall, Zexion watches him intently, hands steady on the hard, canvas cover of his cello case. Demyx winds his way around the hall, clapping musicians on the back, laughing with them, and through it all, Zexion watches, habit now, the movements of Demyx’s hands impossible to ignore.

He waits his turn, and, as always, Demyx bounds up to him, smiling wide with his hand outstretched. “Amazing, as always, Zexion! I can always count on your section to do awesome.”

“You’re too kind.” Zexion nods his head to his conductor. His fingers flex around the handle of his cello case before he reaches down to shoulder the straps on it, the familiar weight settling his post-concert jitteriness.

“Are you coming to dinner?” Demyx asks, lowering his hand, head cocked to the side. “It won’t be anything fancy, just IHOP, but after all day setting up and then the concert! I definitely need some food. I don’t know who else is showing up, but the more the merrier, right?”

 _Yes,_ Zexion’s mind says, still focused on the directions this man’s body gives off, and his conductor is calling him to dinner. But he is no longer in the concert; he does not have to follow the orders he is given blindly. So he shakes his head with a regretful smile. “I should be getting home, actually. I’m exhausted.”

Demyx smiles easily and nods. “Of course! You get some sleep, Zexion. I’ll see you next week for rehearsal.”

“See you then, Demyx.”

And with that, Zexion leaves, cello hoisted high on his shoulders. He threads his way through the crowd, smiling and nodding anytime someone stops to thank him for playing in the concert, though the polite veneer falls the moment he gets outside. Loading the cello into the car is the work of only a few moments, and then Zexion drives off, eyes not completely focused on the road.

He can’t fully focus as he drives, his mind still playing the concert again, memory echoes of snatches of music surfacing one after another until his thoughts are cacophonous noise and nothing more. Zexion never clearly remembers how he gets home after concerts. He just remembers unlocking the door, setting his cello case down in its room. Undressing carefully, putting everything up where it is supposed to be. He takes the same sort of care in the shower, running smooth hands across warm skin, washing every nook and cranny with a single-minded sort of focus. Quickly towelling himself off, Zexion flops down on his bed, barely able to drag the covers over himself.

Music cavorts through his mind. It takes a while before the deep darkness of the room slows it down, until he’s able to focus past the noise and still it to silence.

He breathes in, the intake of air loud to him now.

“ _Great concert, Zexion,_ ” he hears, replayed in his mind over and over again, and he sighs, the breath exiting him slowly. Zexion sees Demyx’s smile again, warmth skittering across his skin. The graceful bow of Demyx’s back, arched and proud as he conducted, the sweep of his lashes, dramatic in the bright lights of the stage, and he finally lets go of the rigid control he had during the whole concert, lets himself think about how Demyx conducts, like he is no more than an extension of the music itself. How his hands move through the air, so confident. How his body bends to the rhythms and beats. How his eyes flash and his smile is quick in the moments where the orchestra falls together perfectly. A familiar heat pools in Zexion’s stomach and he chews the inside of his cheek. Zexion rolls onto his back, and closes his eyes.

He’s beautiful.

God, is he ever beautiful.

“ _Good night, Zexion,”_ Demyx whispers in his mind, and Zexion wonders if perhaps he should feel guilty as his hand slides underneath the edge of his pajama pants.

* * *

 

The first time Zexion met Demyx, neither of them bothered exchanging names at the time, too busy arguing heatedly over something that Zexion can barely even remember how it started but they were both very passionate about.

Wait, no, he can remember.

Demyx had a book. Something about Wagner, and to pass the time while standing in line at a coffeeshop before his rehearsal, Zexion had chosen, uncharacteristically, to start up a conversation, curiosity piqued by Demyx’s smile, the long-fingered fan of his hands across the cover of the book. A conversation that started pleasantly enough and ended…

Well.

“Look, I’m not saying you’re wrong,” the then-stranger said to Zexion, hitching his messenger bag higher on his shoulder. The words “If it’s not Baroque, don’t fix it” are emblazoned on the side of it, bright blue on dark khaki, and Zexion scowls at them in lieu of continuing to scowl at the man in front of him. “But you’re sort of wrong. I mean, you’re not looking at the whole picture, especially given what he did in his music in regards to-”

“But the history and the facts surrounding his life don’t corroborate with any of what people are saying! There’s no conclusive proof,” Zexion snapped without waiting for Demyx to finish, fingers tight around his take-away cup of tea.

Demyx sighed, shook his head. “You shouldn’t need conclusive proof to understand that Wagner’s music, while technically brilliant, has a lot of negative connotations in modern culture, especially concerning Jewish people. Dude was vehemently anti-Semitism. Like, he wrote a bunch of stuff about it, published and all.”

“I know what he wrote, but that doesn’t mean that he was in support of Nazi Germany.”

Demyx blinked at Zexion, teal eyes wide. “Well no, of course not,” he said with such sincerity that it completely threw Zexion off. “Wagner died like, thirty years before the _first_ World War, much less the second. He still hated Jews though, and that means that I’m pretty much supportive of anyone who doesn’t want to play his music. He was a douchebag, and Ride of the Valkyries isn’t good enough to make me want to make people uncomfortable. And if you think that it is, then you’re kind of a jackass yourself.”

Zexion opened his mouth. Closed it. Demyx just shrugged in front of him, taking a sip from his coffee cup, completely unbothered. Right before Zexion could pull his words together again to explain that Demyx had been mistaken about Zexion’s point of argument, a chime sounded. Demyx swore, checking his phone.

“Shit, sorry, I’m gonna be late! It was nice talking to you, Wagner-fan. Maybe we’ll pick it up again later. Next week, we can tackle the Rites of Spring, if you’d like!” And Demyx flashed Zexion a bright, uncomplicated smile and waved as he darted out the door.

Tea in hand, Zexion breathed in the atmosphere, ducked his head when he noticed other patrons of the coffee-shop staring at him, and walked into the sunlight.

He did not look around for the fair, blond stranger.

* * *

 

The second time Zexion met Demyx, it was later that same afternoon, and Zexion sat stiff as a board as the orchestra was introduced to their new conductor, an up-and-up rising star of a composer, already well known for his work. His pieces tended to be passionate and inspiring, catching the audience’s breath easily.

Zexion was, it could be said, a bit of a fan.

But the composer had always remained a faceless mystery to Zexion, and so he raised his eyebrows up, up as his gaze travelled over his new conductor for the orchestra, and Zexion flushed an unattractive shade of red, unaccountably mortified.

Demyx winked at him, which was almost worse.

But Demyx had two spots of color high on his pale cheeks and he sent Zexion an apologetic smile, a mouthed ‘ _sorry’_ from the conductor’s stand, and Zexion thought, as his heart fluttered almost fondly under his sternum, that he had forgiven people far worse than an impassioned, opinionated conversation.

* * *

 

He walked up to the podium after rehearsal, waited until everyone left him alone to try and apologize, but Demyx only waved him off with a smile and a kind word, something about never minding having a friendly disagreement with a fellow musician. And besides, if Zexion was that passionate about Wagner, then Demyx couldn’t wait to see how passionate he was about music that was actually good.

Zexion just thought “oh” and wondered briefly why it was so hard to breathe.

* * *

 

Zexion cocks his head slightly towards his cello, tamping his fingers down firmly on the strings as he lengthens his bow strokes. _Mmmm, mmmmmmm, mmmmm,_ and once he’s finally satisfied with the resonant sound coming out of the instrument, he slowly warms up his vibrato, letting his wrist go loose. _Much better_ , he thinks, drifting into the soft space where only the instrument under his hands and the music in front of his eyes exist.

Then there is a sudden obnoxious squawk from the trumpets and Zexion’s fingers twitch at a crucial moment. The cellist scowls briefly at his music before he turns his glare at the offending musician.

“Axel! Stop cleaning your trumpet like a grade-schooler!” he calls over the rest of the raucous noise. “You might deafen someone!”

“You still hear fine!” comes the cheerful answer across the hall, and Zexion smothers his sigh. “Don’t be such a stick in the mud, Zexion!”

 _Insufferable._ (But he masks the smile on his lips by refocusing on his music, letting his expression fade in favor of channeling everything he feels into notes that are more communicative than he could ever hope to be.)

The energy in the room changes slightly, the focus shifting from individuals to a single point, and Zexion looks up just as Demyx steps up onto the podium.

He claps to get everyone’s attention, but it’s unnecessary. The orchestra fell silent habitually the instant they all saw him, a wave of inactivity as the musicians put their instruments into rest position. Zexion rests his right hand, bow cradled in his fingers, on his knee and waits. Demyx smiles around the room, then claps his hands again.

“Alright, it’s good to see everyone. I hope you’re all having a good day so far. You should all have your new music on your stands, and some of you might be noticing a few new faces! We have recently been joined by new members, in the percussion section and in the winds, and I expect you all to make them feel comfortable and welcome in their sections.”

“Does that mean we get to do our typical welcoming party?” Axel asks, fire lining his words. “Because there’s no way that skinny little shit in the percussion section has what it takes.”

There is a moment of perfect silence.

“ _What?”_ the -and Zexion mentally quotes, amused- ‘skinny little shit’ snarls, and in the viola section, Zexion can see Sora wincing and hunkering down, as though he knows what’s about to happen. Interesting. “Say that again, you piece of shit, I dare you. You’re a trumpeter, you don’t know anything about percussion.”

The symphony shifts and sighs as one, tensing and relaxing while they shift to see better, instruments setting down in laps, bows across stands and knees. In the corner of Zexion’s eye, Demyx sets his baton down and leans forward, digging in his bag for something. There was a time, Zexion thinks, that he would have protested this waste of practice time, but he knows better now.

Demyx doesn’t let these things happen without having a purpose

Axel snorts, buffing the bell of his trumpet easily. “I know when someone’s not cut out to play in this orchestra. And from how we talked outside...”

“Oh really?”

(Sora, Zexion notes, is now pulling the collar of his shirt over the lower half of his face, and his visible skin is bright red. Riku, in the first violin section, seems to be trying to get his attention, but it’s a useless effort, and he ends up looking either sympathetic or constipated.)

“Really.”

The kid in the percussion section jerks his chin up arrogantly. Zexion bets that if the saxophones and french horns weren’t in the way, Axel would have already been pegged by a mallet to the forehead. “Fine by me, douchecanoe. How do you want to settle this, then, since your head’s so far up your ass you can’t hear good music anymore?”

Axel’s smile is a slash across his angular face, thin and sharp like the rest of him, and he stands up. “The name’s Axel.”

“Roxas.”

“Improv battle?”

(“Oh no,” Sora groans. Demyx does nothing except to pull out a small black box with a microphone attached to it. He sets it on the stand and quietly turns it on.)

Roxas grins widely. “You’re on.”

And that is the start of something amazing. Axel and Roxas at least wait for a nod from Demyx to start, and Roxas pulls out his mallets for the timpani.

Zexion sighs to himself. He scoots back in his chair, letting his back rest against the hard plastic as Axel trills wildly, his trumpet blaring and clear and triumphant, a challenge that Roxas takes up with a few thundering belts. Their melody is complex and passes back and forth between them, Roxas’s skill showing clearly through his music and the way he handles the key changes and tempo changes that Axel throws at him. Axel plays a quick little jingle that Roxas mockingly sends back, and Axel laughs loudly.

In the (relative) quiet, Larxene picks up her violin and starts playing as well.

From there it spreads, everyone waiting for a turn to play, some going at the same time and melding around each other. Riku challenges Larxene the next time she plays, smoothes out her wild fiddling into a soulful harmony with Sora’s viola. The other members of the brass, friends of Axel mostly, just keep up a jazzy sequence whenever their turn comes around, and through it all, Zexion sits and listens.

He looks up at Demyx, who is watching everyone but still seems to notice instantly when Zexion turns to stare. Demyx returns his gaze, cocks his head to the side. “Yes, Zexion?”

Zexion raises an eyebrow at him. “Shouldn’t we try to stop them?”

Demyx grins, wide and delighted. “Nah, this is good.”

And god, Zexion loves him, struck senseless and dizzy with it as he meets Demyx’s bright eyes and feels the corners of his mouth lift in an answering smile amidst the swell and push of sound. He feels calm and safe here, the eye of the storm. Demyx’s fingers tap on the stand in front of him as Demyx’s attention refocuses on the music, quick patterns and flutters of beats, in time with the blinking red light of the recorder.

“This is good,” Demyx says again, settled and proud.

“Yes,” Zexion agrees simply.

(It is no small amount of hubris that moves Zexion towards the piano later, showing off on that instrument what he can’t on his cello.

When he looks over at Demyx, he flushes all over at the knowing, intent stare that he is on the receiving end of, but Zexion lifts his chin, cocks an eyebrow, and trills the keys before easily and authoritatively slamming down resplendent chords.

Demyx smiles.)

* * *

 

There had been a time, Zexion remembers, when he had not wanted Demyx as his conductor. Years ago, now, when Zexion had thought that a steadier hand was what he wanted as a player, not someone who conducted so organically that it never came out the same way twice.

He can’t remember what that feels like.

* * *

 

Lights glare in his face, bright bright bright, but he focuses past them as he always does.

The familiar, fierce twisting burn is still there in his sternum as he watches Demyx conduct, his eyes trained on the side of Demyx’s face, on the sweeping guidance of his baton. Zexion barely looks at his music, his very breath conducted by the sway of his director’s hands and body. And perhaps Demyx never notices how Zexion’s eyes never leave him during a concert, but the intoxicating rush that Zexion feels, heart pounding high in his throat, skin feeling pulled too tight, is like none other in the world.

The dizzying twist of arousal isn’t something that Zexion has to share. How much he wants those hands on him is a secret for him and him alone.

* * *

 

Zexion doesn’t usually bother with the post-concert dinners that Demyx is so fond of. He understands the intent. Most of the musicians don’t have time for food the day of the concert, and playing takes a lot out of everyone, so going out to dinner serves a twofold purpose of team bonding and sustenance.

Plus, there is very little musicians love more than food.

As is his usual habit, Zexion waits for Demyx to walk by and offer to bring him along to whatever dinner the orchestra is going to. Zexion’s eyes narrow as he watches Demyx move around the room. Demyx seems tired and withdrawn in a way he usually isn’t after concerts, his smiles less vibrant.

Hm.

Zexion rubs the callouses on his fingerpads together, contemplating. There is a faint ache in his left hand that he stretches, pressing the tension out of his hand with careful movements.

“Hey, Zexion,” Demyx says, and he musters up a smile that Zexion does not return. “Good job at the. Yeah. Good job. Do you want to go get food with everyone or something?”

For a moment, there is silence. Then Zexion finds himself opening his mouth and asking, “Do you?”

Demyx, already about to turn away, ready for Zexion’s typical dismissal, stops. “What?”

“Do you want to get food? With me.”

Zexion swallows as Demyx sizes him up and quirks an eyebrow. “I just asked you that.”

“No.” Zexion shakes his head. “No, I meant. Just me.”

And Demyx’s eyes focus suddenly, Zexion caught in an intense, evaluating stare. Demyx blinks once, twice, and then he smiles, so happily that Zexion finds himself automatically smiling as well. “Absolutely. That sounds like exactly what I need.” Demyx tucks his fingers into the pockets of his black slacks, leans forward conspiratorially, whispers, “Honestly, I’m not really up for being around everyone right now. I’m kind of tired.”

Zexion nods, shoulders his cello case with the ease of long practice. “I had figured as much. Are you not feeling well?”

“Eh.” Demyx shrugs and falls in step with Zexion as they head out of the rehearsal room. As Zexion is about to open the door into the atrium of the concert hall, Demyx finishes his thought, “I’m just in the mood for something a bit more intimate, I think. Smaller, you know.”

Zexion swallows, but there is little time to contemplate what he means as they are enveloped by the throng of people. There are several moments as they maneuver through the crowd where Zexion feels a phantom press against his hip or lower back, in the space between him and his cello case - Demyx’s hand, leading him subtly through the audience with a quiet touch.

He is painfully aware of Demyx’s presence behind his shoulder, electrified with it and shivering.

“I’ll just go ahead and follow you to yours, alright?” Demyx asks in the parking lot.

Nodding, Zexion says, “Yes. I’ll make sure to drive slower than usual.”

Demyx laughs, but heads to his car with a wave anyway, and Zexion breathes in shakily, out, unlocks his car and drives home with no music in his mind for once. Only anticipation.

He takes a moment when he arrives to sit in his car, hands flexing on the steering wheel. It’s only Demyx. Only Demyx and only in his apartment, and only if Zexion invites him up. They could go out somewhere else, just the two of them, if Zexion really wanted to.

Zexion hears the crunch of pavement behind him and lets himself out of the car. “Would you like to wait here while I put this up?” he asks as Demyx opens his door.

Demyx blinks over at him before nodding and smiling, crossing his arms over the door of his sedan. “Yeah, it’s a pretty nice night. I’ll be alright alone for a few minutes.”

“I expect nothing to be broken on my return,” Zexion replies dryly, and Demyx laughs. There’s a moment, Zexion thinks, where he could just ask Demyx to follow him upstairs. The words are right on the tip of his tongue, and he. Swallows them. Says, “Think of somewhere to go,” instead, because Zexion isn’t ready yet. He’s not ready for Demyx, half-shirted and relaxing in his apartment.

Not yet.

It is the work of only a few minutes for Zexion to deposit his cello in its spot and jog back downstairs.

The dinner that follows is easy. Demyx is effortlessly entertaining, and Zexion sits close enough that their knees keep knocking together under the table, Demyx’s long legs taking up so much space that they both brush it off time and time again as inevitable when Demyx’s knees end up pressed up against Zexion’s.

He can’t tell what is warmer, the contact or his face.

Eventually, however, Demyx looks down at his watch. “Shit, when the hell did it get to be two in the morning? I have to get home, Zexion, sorry to run out on you like this.”

“It’s alright. I shouldn’t have kept you so late.” Zexion pulls away from Demyx reluctantly. He wonders if its his imagination that Demyx seems equally reluctant. “I will see you tomorrow for rehearsal?”

“Yep. Night, Zexion!” Demyx waves as he hurries out of the restaurant.

Zexion, still sitting in the booth, leans his head back, lets himself wallow in regret for a long moment, before he shakes it off. There’s no time for that.

* * *

 

If Demyx’s knee slipping higher and higher against Zexion’s thighs, Demyx looking innocent and wicked all at once across the table, features prominently in his fantasies that night,, well.

Zexion isn’t going to say anything.

* * *

 

It becomes something of a custom after that. There are times where Zexion will muster his bravery from somewhere less than honorable, and invite Demyx out for food. For a few months, he keeps it as a ritual to offer solely after concerts whenever Demyx seems a bit more wiped out than other times.

But Zexion is also greedy, so it’s not a surprise when he offers it after one rehearsal or another, less of a surprise even when Zexion doesn’t tell Demyx to wait downstairs and instead crowds Demyx into his small, serviceable apartment.

The first time, Zexion putters around nervously, making food for both him and Demyx, who is sitting in a comfortable chair that has his suit jacket and tie draped over the back of it. Demyx blows on the cup of tea that Zexion provided before sipping it noisily, his eyes darting around the apartment curiously.

There is nothing out in the open for Zexion to feel embarrassed over, yet anxiety curls again and again in Zexion’s breastbone, wanting Demyx to find his space charming and interesting. Wanting Demyx to find Zexion charming and interesting, and at the thought, Zexion drops his gaze to the floor, seeking solace. Instead, his eyes catch on the cant of Demyx’s legs and lower still, and Zexion finds that there is something inexplicably and unbearably intimate about the curl of Demyx’s bare feet in his carpet.

Zexion sighs and raises his eyes once more.

He is completely hopeless, he thinks to himself as he busies himself once again with cooking.

“I like it,” Demyx announces.

Zexion leans out of the kitchen doorway, raises an eyebrow.

“I like your apartment a lot. It suits you.” Demyx grins over the rim of his cup, and Zexion’s heart stutters slightly. “Hope you know that now that I’ve been over here, you’re never getting rid of me.”

“Perish the thought,” Zexion says dryly.

But his mind whispers, _Never leave_ , and he is not strong enough to quell the idea.

* * *

 

Demyx is right, of course. Of course now that he’s been over to Zexion’s apartment once, he never stops showing up, sometimes coming to visit on days that have nothing to do with the orchestra other than the fact that they’re both obsessed, as any musician is. Zexion gets used to having him around, either silently or not, Demyx’s cheerful chatter filling a silence he hadn’t noticed before its dismissal.

Of course, it’s during these visits that Zexion and Demyx get to talking, and Zexion ends up, nervous, divulging perhaps a bit more about himself than he originally intended.

“You name them?” Demyx asks, delighted.

Scowling to cover his embarrassment, Zexion runs his hand down the length of his bow, shoulders tensed. “You don’t? You seem the type.”

“That’s not the important part right now, Zexion. The important thing is that _you_ name your instruments.C’mon, Zexion, what’s this one’s name? Tell me!” Demyx’s fingers hover a scant few inches from the surface of his cello, knowing better than to touch an instrument unless he’s invited to.

Zexion sighs, debates answering him honestly, because really, Demyx won’t know the difference whether Zexion lies to him or not. But the instrument under his hands is the one he favors for Demyx’s orchestra, isn’t it? And it demands honesty to its conductor, if nothing else. He nods slightly, indicating that Demyx can touch him as he answers. “…His name is Gespenst.”

Demyx trails his fingertips lightly down the cello’s surface, and Zexion shivers as the faintest bit of friction vibrates throughout the wooden body into his legs. “What does it mean?”

“Specter, more or less.” Zexion curls a hand around the upper curve of the C bouts. “He used to belong to my great-grandfather,” he adds without prompting, without really knowing why. His calloused fingertips gently caress Gespenst’s polished surface. Zexion knows where all the rough patches on this instrument are, all the places where the varnish has been worn through to the veins of the wood underneath. Gespenst is _his_ instrument, no one else’s. And he is Gespenst’s player.

Zexion looks up and is caught in Demyx’s gaze.

His heart stutters.

“He’s your favorite,” Demyx says. It’s sure, Demyx saying it more for acknowledgement than any lack of knowledge, aqua eyes wide and steady. There are freckles sprinkled delicately across the sweep of his nose and brow, Zexion notices, now that Demyx is so close. Pale brown imprints against Demyx’s skin, and Zexion loves them desperately.

Slowly, caught, Zexion nods in answer. “I always play it for you.” A moment later, he corrects, “For your orchestra.”

“For me,” Demyx says.

(Zexion looks away, but he does not disagree.)

* * *

 

It is some lazy, golden afternoon when Demyx sits bolt upright from his position laying on the floor of Zexion's apartment and asks, “Hey, do you want to go to my place instead?”

“Yes.” And the word is out almost before Zexion is fully aware of saying it, of realizing that he gets to see Demyx’s space, heart pounding high in his throat. Demyx doesn’t seem to mind his eagerness, though. He only smiles at Zexion and hauls himself upright.

“Alright then! Let’s go. I’ve been over here often enough that you should get to see where I slum it out.”

Zexion wrinkles his nose. “Don’t say that.”

Demyx shrugs, pulling his keys from his pocket with a metallic jangle. “Shall we?”

When they get there, Zexion steps out of his car and stares.

Demyx has a house. It shouldn’t be surprising; it is.

It’s a small, one-story house with a friendly ginger cat inside who meows, bell-like and soft, insistently at Zexion’s feet until Demyx scoops him up, running gentle fingers behind the cat’s ears. “Sorry,” Demyx says, “Wizard isn’t used to me being home around this time anymore. Oh don’t look at me like that, I never stay away for too long.”

“You never mentioned having a cat,” is all Zexion can think of to say, but he reaches out to scratch Wizard’s chin before Demyx can look too disheartened. “Show me around?”

Demyx smiles.

(It is completely unsurprising that he has an entire room set aside for a piano and all of his other music paraphernalia, and when Demyx asks if Zexion wants to bring his cello over sometime so they can play together, Zexion does not hesitate to say yes.)

And so they play music together. Just the two of them. Alone in either Demyx’s house or Zexion’s apartment, with or without Wizard near them, because the cat is welcome to visit Zexion’s apartment as well as his owner.

It is hideously intimate, something that Zexion ascribes too much meaning to, he’s sure, but.

Sometimes, Demyx is the one to sit in front of the piano, to straighten his back and play, fingers dancing merrily over the keyboard. Chopin, Debussy, Rachmaninov, strange, half-finished pieces, all of them falling from his fingertips. Zexion curls up in the large chair in the corner and watches him. Demyx sways like a plant underwater when he plays, leaning into his melody with a passion that is palpable.

Zexion, from his place in his chair, chin propped up on thin, bony fingers, loves Demyx. He watches avidly for the playful glances that Demyx sometimes sends him, and Zexion tries to not read too much into what Demyx is doing here.

But those are the only times he hears those pieces, and most of the time, Demyx seems to be making them up as he goes along.

(Sometimes, though, Zexion pulls out his cello and plays with Demyx, where he can pretend that the melding of their music is close enough to what he wants to satisfy him.)

* * *

 

“-so, then, like, we’ll go ahead and bring in the winds here? Yeah? But only a few of them. Maybe the bassoon, they don’t get a lot of attention otherwise, and I think that’d sound nice with you.”

“With the cello,” Zexion corrects absently, looking over Demyx’s marked up score, notes scribbled in pencil all along the music staff.

“Mmm, ‘swhat I said,” Demyx mumbles, mouth half-full of the eraser end of his mechanical pencil.

They are spread out together on Demyx’s bed, sheet music covering every other available inch of mattress. Numerous pencils have been lost somewhere in Demyx’s sheets, and Zexion hikes the blanket he has claimed as his higher over his shoulder, discreetly pressing his nose against it to smell Demyx on it. Something like clean air and salt.

Beside him, Demyx has continued speaking. “Now, you liked this part, right? I remember you telling me-” and Zexion looks down to see the scattering of notes that Demyx is pointing at, closes his eyes against the remembrance of the faded sunlight through Demyx’s eyelashes, the practically debilitating curl of “ _this is how I feel about you_ ” that he had put into the music. “-that you loved this part, so I think that I can bring you in there, tell you to raise that up, and I’ll drop the other strings down to back you up. They’ll still be with you, just quiet.”

“With the cello, you mean,” Zexion says again, and this time, Demyx looks up. Zexion carefully doesn’t meet his eyes, instead keeping his on the music sheets. Which are trembling in his hands. Putting it down, Zexion hopes that Demyx didn’t notice. He waits for Demyx to say something. Anything.

The silence stretches for several, several measures.

(Zexion wonders, inanely, what time signature they’re in, what the tempo is, anything to give him some cues.)

“It’s. It’s not as though I’m going to be the only cellist who plays this, after all,” Zexion says. Oh god. Is his voice shaking? Embarrassment curls up, heats his face, and Zexion drops his eyes down, closes them.

Gentle fingers on his jaw coax Zexion to look up at Demyx

“Zexion,” Demyx says, searching his face intently. “Zexion, what gave you the idea that it wasn’t ever for just you?”

Zexion cannot think of a response to that, and he only looks back at Demyx, shaking very faintly.

With a quiet sigh, fond and warm, Demyx leans in, his breath brushing warm over Zexion’s lips as he gently turns Zexion’s face up towards him. The first touch of their lips makes Zexion shiver, but he seizes the moment greedily, kissing back firmly. They slide apart, then refit as Demyx turns his head a bit more, relaxing into the kiss to be a bit bolder, flickering his tongue out.

There’s a long breath after they pull away, a fermata of sorts, and Zexion licks his tingling mouth with the stray thought that it will cement the taste of Demyx with him forever. He shakes his head and noses against Demyx’s cheek, pressing soft kisses there, uncertain of his welcome, before he musters up the courage to ask, “How long?”

“Ages, Zexion,” Demyx groans, nipping the tendon of Zexion’s neck. “Do you know how you watch me when we’re on stage?”

And Zexion bows his head into the unspeakably graceful curve of Demyx’s neck, more lovely to him than the form of every instrument Zexion has ever loved. He supposes that must be true. He has never been exactly subtle. But Demyx drags his nails down Zexion’s back, drawing him out of his thoughts. Zexion looks up at him, raises an eyebrow.

“Now is not the time for you to get all quiet and self-reflecting.” Demyx kisses the tip of Zexion’s nose, grins widely. “You should be seriously debauching me right now, come on.”

Zexion laughs and when he presses Demyx back towards the bed, Demyx goes.

* * *

 

There is a weight that settles just before a concert is about to begin. Like the very room itself readies for formed sound, a hush falling first through the brass, slowly muffling the woodwinds, before settling in on the strings, dampening their vibrations. The audience always quickly picks up on it, conversations stilling in moments, every eye turned to the stage as the lights dim.

An anticipatory silence hangs in the air.

Footsteps echo in the concert hall, meeting thunderous applause as the concertmaster comes out and takes a bow, her skin nigh-on porcelain in the bright lights. A rustle of clothing as everyone readies themselves for tuning, the B-flat for woodwinds, F for the brass, and then the resplendent A for the strings.

Silence falls once more, musicians staring across their stands at each other, their breaths practically timed. He takes a deep inhale, reopens his eyes and fixes his gaze on the opening of the stage behind the first violins. Any moment now. _Tap, tap, tap, tap_. He stands just as the conductor strides on stage, the rest of the orchestra following him seamlessly. They wait for the conductor to bow, smile, wave at the audience, step up on the podium, and as one, the orchestra sits again, attention focused on the conductor.

_Thump-thump._

It doesn’t matter how many times he gets up on the stage, there’s always the brief breathless moment of crystalline terror right as the conductor gazes out over his orchestra. His heartbeat is loud and nauseating in his ears. The music is open on the stand in front of him, his cello a familiar weight between his knees, and the conductor fills his vision. Breathe in, breathe out, in time with him and the rest of the orchestra.

Demyx raises his hands. Hands that Zexion knows now, intimately. He has kissed the valleys between their knuckles, felt them, warm and long inside of him and around him. Zexion knows the freckles that linger on Demyx’s hipbones, has pressed worshipful lips to the sensitive insides of Demyx’s wrists.

He lifts his bow to the strings.

(Another rustle of moving musicians follows him, no hesitation.)

Looking across the orchestra, Demyx nods to himself. Slyly, he looks over at Zexion in the front row of cellists, Gespenst held carefully in his very faintly shaking left hand, sends him a wink. Zexion lets his eyes smile before he resets his mind on the sheet of music in front of him. Demyx nods yet again, takes a deep breath in to set the tempo.

 _One and two and three_ _**and-** _

Zexion pulls his bow across his strings right on cue, and the concert begins.


End file.
